


Every Breath That Is In Your Lungs Is A Tiny Little Gift To Me

by MissMoochy



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Eavesdropping, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Overhearing Sex, POV Matt Murdock, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28231560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: He finds space to sit on Foggy’s fire escape, hidden from view, hunched over in the dark. Foggy’s awake tonight, he’s moving around, doing something a sheet, snaps it into place under his mattress. He smiles, wondering if later, he’ll hear the click of computer keys or some old movie playing from tinny speakers. But something’s wrong. There are two heartbeats in his apartment.Matt hears something that he shouldn't.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Mike Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Kudos: 35





	Every Breath That Is In Your Lungs Is A Tiny Little Gift To Me

It’s a quiet night. By Hell’s Kitchen’s standards. New York, the city that never sleeps. An accurate tagline. The buzz of cars mesh with the click of doors and high heels, like an orchestra spread out beneath him.  
  
Patrol was uneventful. He stopped a guy from breaking into a liquor store, and escorted a woman to her car, but other than that, it’s been boring. He appreciates nights like these — they give his body a chance to recover. He thinks of his skin stitching together, his bones fusing. Desperately trying to undo the damage from previous nights. He sighs. He wants his bed.

But, before he heads homeward, he has one last place to visit. It’s his last port of call every night that Daredevil walks the streets. The apartment of one Foggy Nelson.

* * *

Foggy doesn’t know that Matt drops by for these nighttime visits. It’s better that way. He wouldn’t understand. But then, for all of Foggy’s intelligence, he’d never be able to truly empathise with Matt. He doesn’t know what it’s like to hear every heartbeat, to smell sickness on a person’s breath, to hear births and deaths every day. People are so fragile. Breakable. And Matt feels a sense of responsibility for his best friend. Foggy is his. Matt needs to protect him, make sure he’s safe.

There’s something wonderfully calming about Foggy’s heartbeat. His snuffly breaths and gentle snore. In college, that low rumble in his nostrils was more akin to the whine of a drill. So many nights that Matt lay in the dorm and gritted his teeth, hating the noise, hating Foggy. He can’t imagine feeling that way now. He treasures every sound that he makes.

He finds space to sit on Foggy’s fire escape, hidden from view, hunched over in the dark. Foggy’s awake tonight, he’s moving around, doing something a sheet, snaps it into place under his mattress. He smiles, wondering if later, he’ll hear the click of computer keys or some old movie playing from tinny speakers. But something’s wrong. There are two heartbeats in his apartment.

* * *

Two voices, both so familiar. Mingling together. If Matt cared to listen, he could distinguish what each man was saying. But he doesn’t, so he letw#s the two voices overlap until all he can hear are the cadences.

Foggy.

And Mike. His brother.

“Condom?”

“Right here.”

“Can’t believe this. Can’t believe I’m here with you,” Foggy mutters and there was something that Mike said, a growled mutter that was instantly swallowed up by the roar of a passing truck. But Matt heard what could only be Mike’s palm swat Foggy’s backside, and Foggy’s surprised squeal.

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.

* * *

“You ever think about doing this with Matt?”

Matt closes his eyes. His heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice, but his heartbeat sounds steady and unaffected to his ears. He fumbles for his billy club, grips it in his gloved hands, grounds himself with something solid and real. He tries for breath, even manages to inflate his lungs with a small pocketful of air. But the air feels too hot and stale and he wants to eject it from his body.

Foggy’s heart is skittering uncertainly. “Don’t — let’s not talk about him.”

“Sure,” Mike says. “Okay.”

“I just… Sometimes, it feels like everything revolves around him, you know?” It’s instantly recognisable the tell-tale signs of a Foggy Nelson who is spiralling into panic. The babbling, the defensiveness. He recalls it from their days in—

“College. And the firm, and Daredevil, and he’s always on the news? I want…something for myself. Just me. I’m not a bad person, I—”

“Yeah, no, I get it. I _totally_ get it.”

“Thanks,” Foggy mutters, barely audible. Matt has to lean forward to hear it, so he suspects Mike probably didn’t catch it. But perhaps there was some physical gesture to accompany it, because he thinks he hears a light brush of skin on skin, and then Mike’s sigh.

“You sure you want this?”

He should probably give his brother more credit. From what he can tell, Mike and Foggy are stone-cold sober. There’s no syrupy stink of liquor in the air, no clink of glasses or hiss of air expelled from the tapered necks of bottles. His brother and his best friend know exactly what they’re doing. And that should be a comfort. The two people he loves most in the world are confiding in each other, taking solace in each other’s company...in each other’s bodies…

His fingers tighten on the club, and the hard pressure pushing into the pads of his fingers is reassuring.

Mike and Foggy have progressed from talking to something more intimate. The mattress creaks gently, shifting under their combined weight but the kissing is slow, unhurried. Subtle sounds of lips meeting, wet slick licks of two tongues working in tandem. Foggy’s soft murmurs, Mike’s groans and the heavy thump of his heart. Mike gasps, and shivers under Foggy’s mouth. Did Foggy bite him? Maybe he picked up some tricks from Marci…

His hand is beginning to hurt, fingers still gripping the club as if it is the only thing keeping him adhered to the fire escape. He relaxes his hold, just a little, tries to ignore the stirring between his legs. He’s secure, all strapped in with an athletic cup, but if he was at home, he’d be kicking off his boots, throwing himself heavily onto the bed and taking his aching cock in hand. Roughly palm it, with his eyes squeezed shut and Foggy’s name on his lips. 

He presses himself against the railings, holds his breath, leaves it hooked in his lungs, wanting nothing to impede his hearing. He could weep at the noise pollution that threatens to smother the sounds of their lovemaking. A television blaring from the floor below them. A dog barking in the next building. A hundred different conversations and thousands of different smells, like a bubbling pot, a witch’s brew that threatens to overwhelm his body.

On nights like these, he’d bear through it, deaden his senses with meditation. But he can’t do that, because Mike is laying Foggy down and kissing his throat. Kissing him wetly, with obscene loud sucks on his neck, and Foggy’s saying _yes, right there_ and he can hear everything, the snap of a belt buckle, the click of Foggy’s spine as he rolls his back, arches his hips so Mike can slide his pants down his legs. 

But it should be him. It should be his hands roaming ever inch of Foggy’s soft, hot flesh. He’d catalogue it, commit it to memory. Why does it have to be Mike? Mike has a way of ruining everything he touches, marring something perfect with a brief touch of greasy fingerprints and he’s putting those fingers all over Foggy. A hit spike of anger spears his heart and he embraces it, glad to feel something that doesn’t leave him drained and dying on the fire escape. Fuck Mike, why does he feel entitled to everything that clearly belongs to Matt? Matt met Foggy first, he was his friend, his brother just wants what he can’t have. And Mike, boorish, obstinate, mocking Mike is spreading Foggy open and muttering filthy things about how _good_ he looks, how it feels so _right_ to be buried deep inside him—

Matt presses his cheek to the windowpane, cool and refreshing, still damp from this mornings downpour. When he inhales deeply, he can smell sweat and something cloying, like chemicals — lubricant? Sweet, sticky lube, melting inside Foggy’s burning hot body.

He stays, for the duration of their coupling. Listens to the squeak of the bedsprings, the slap of flesh, the panting, the moaning. He hears when Mike climaxes, the low moan that he buries in Foggy’s neck, the muffled spurt of his come hitting the inside of the condom. And Foggy, his cries growing louder, his fingers scratching Mike’s back, leaving hot trails of pain that spark in the air. His legs shaking, his thighs straining as they grip Mike’s hips and then…so much.

He can smell Foggy’s come, God, he wishes the could open the window so he could stick out his tongue and taste it in the air. Hot and salty and made just for him, he’d swallow every drop, lick every inch of Foggy’s body until he couldn’t get that taste off his teeth and his tongue. He wants to wrap himself up in Foggy, coat his skin so that the smell soaks into every pore. He thinks, idly, of touching himself. Taking himself in his hand and using just the right amount of pressure to get that high. But it would be his hand. Ugly and rough, with a network of jagged scars and welts and calluses. Not Foggy’s soft palms. He sighs, gets unsteadily to his feet. Mike and Foggy are resting now, their heartbeats are only a little out of sync with each other, but they’re slowing down. And relaxed, quiet breaths tell him that both men will surely be sleeping soon. He should head home. It’ll be dawn soon.


End file.
